


The Place Between the Wolves

by zanni_1 (zanni_scaramouche)



Series: Pines & Wolves [2]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Banshee Lydia Martin, Blood Bond, Bromance, Canon-Typical Violence, Implied John/Melissa, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, M/M, Moral Grey Lines, Sharing a Bed, Werefox Stiles Stilinski, maybe a little graphic on pain, past Kate/Derek, really teetering on the edge of ot3 here, sciles friendship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-10
Updated: 2020-04-24
Packaged: 2021-03-01 20:07:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 13,233
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23582824
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/zanni_scaramouche/pseuds/zanni_1
Summary: Derek is figuring out how to be an Alpha and walk the same streets as his ghosts. Scott’s struggling with the hassle of being dead on paper as he tries to plan a future that has nothing to do with moon cycles. Stiles... He doesn’t want to talk about it.ORThey’re living in a state of limbo. Derek still has a house in Oregon to return to, Scott is certified deceased hiding out in his mother's house like a ghost, and Stiles is only twenty one. He’s going to have to decide what to do with the rest of his life at some point. With the way Lydia keeps looking at him ‘the rest’ might be shorter than he thought.
Relationships: Allison Argent/Scott McCall, Derek Hale/Stiles Stilinski, Scott McCall & Stiles Stilinski
Series: Pines & Wolves [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1697578
Comments: 4
Kudos: 138





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> For those who wanted a sequel <3 
> 
> I had really big plans for this and zero energy to follow through with them. I'm sorry!

Stiles stumbles down the stairs in the zombie fugue of a netflix hangover. He's still getting accustomed to full internet access and there’s a lot to catch up on, thus he could not be blamed for his tunnel vision. Life did not start until he had a full bowl of brightly coloured cereal in his hands, so it’s as his spoon takes it’s second plunge into the milk that he notices the werewolf sitting at his dining room table and promptly chokes to death. Derek watches silently as he gags so hard tears start leaking, not making a move to help, dick. At least he’s wearing a shirt today.

So maybe this wasn’t the first time this had happened. Maybe Stiles should expect it by now, considering the last two months Derek’s been lurking in a corner like a tall, dark, and unintentionally sexy stalker every time Stiles turns around, but still. What a waste of fruit loops. His throat is sore as fuck once he can breathe again, he’ll have to wait for them to go soggy if he doesn’t want to continue scraping the shit out of it. A wave of milk dives over the lip of the bowl when Stiles drops it to the counter.

“Are we generally stalking today or do we have a reason for ruining my breakfast?” 

Maybe Stiles is being a jerk, but dude. Fruit Loops. 

“The girl-”

“Allison?” 

“No, the redhead,” Derek corrects with a sigh. “She-”

“Lydia,” Stiles cuts in. He hates it when Derek is vague about things, like mentioning a sore topic is made better by tiptoeing the finer points. Derek raises an eyebrow at his attitude.

“Lydia,” he pronounces slowly and it grates over Stiles’ nerves but he does nothing more than chew his tongue and watch his cereal swell with milk. “You should visit her.”

Stiles dumps the bowl into the sink, appetite gone. 

“You should mind your own wolf-y business.” 

He marches back up the stairs. He’s only just woken, but perhaps a nap is what he needs. A restart button, ‘thank you for playing, better luck next time’ sort of thing. His bedroom door slams shut and he lands face down on his childhood bed with a groan. Tomorrow will be no better, nap or no nap. Derek is great. He is. Sometimes. When he’s silent and ten feet away. Anything else and he’s too close, too far, too annoying, too perfect (which is the same thing as annoying.) 

Two months have passed since the great showdown, and things are going… they’re going. 

They’re adjusting. Stiles still flinches in shock when he gets a text from Scott, his name on the screen like a stinging papercut, because generally he thinks it’s gotta be a joke. Because he forgets Scott’s alive. Four years is a long time to be dead. When he hangs out with Scott it’s great, amazing even, as they joke around and smash each other in video games like they used to. Sometimes it’s… not. They’re hanging out and it’s just like old times, but then Stiles will stumble like he’s been punched in the gut. Every nerve in his body feels like a live wire and the itch to shift and run is overwhelming in those moments, to the point that he’s crouched over and sweating with the effort to stay where he is and what he is until a certain pair of sturdy hands are on him. 

Derek swears he doesn’t mind, that it’s fine. It’s not fine when it happens in a 7-11. Or the arcade. Or the diner. He and Scott stop going out so much, especially since they always have to go a few towns over so he’s not recognized. Perhaps it wouldn’t be so bad if it didn’t happen when he was hanging out with Derek too. On sunny days when they’re wandering the preserve and Derek’s teaching him how to isolate scents and maybe that’s still a bad idea when one of the first things Stiles can pick up is ScottScottScott and he’s darting on four legs, a streak of orange in a crowded neighbourhood until he’s scratching at the back door of the McCall house.

Fluctuating, is what Derek calls it. The bond is snapping and settling at inappropriate times. A pain in the ass is what Stiles calls it. Don’t think he hasn’t noticed it doesn’t happen to Scott or Derek either. Sure, they get a little clingy some days, maybe want Stiles to wear a shirt of theirs or sit on the couch until they’ve morphed into one giant pack sandwich, but it has nothing on the debilitating state Stiles falls into every other day. Derek has an answer for that too. 

“We’re of blood. Our bond has been there since he was born. The bond between you two suffered during mourning, and we’re still… “ he tends to trail off here in vague shoulder shrugs. If there’s something Stiles has learned about Derek, it’s his perpetual default to avoid a tough conversation by using body language. Why use words when eyebrows and eyerolls worked just as well?

A knock on his door postpones any plans he had for eternal solitude. 

“Son?” 

Stiles groans into his pillow. One of Scott’s shirts is bunched up beside him and makes it hard to breathe, but staying still gives the right effect for the mood he wants to give off.

“I’ll be at the station, doing my job. I suppose you’ll be here, doing… whatever it is you’re doing.” He hears the door close halfway before his dad continues, “Parrish will be here for dinner. Be presentable, yeah?”

His dad’s heavy boots clamber down the stairs in a familiar rhythm before a muted greeting and the cruiser pulling out of the drive. He flops over now that he’s alone so he can breathe and stare listlessly at the ceiling. It’s impossible to rid his mind of Lydia. The last time he’d seen her in Eichen, the visceral fear she had at the sight of him, her anger. 

Seeing the most intelligent person he knew lose their grip on reality like that? He still has nightmares about it. Because the last woman he’d loved had done the same, and his mother died yelling he was a murderer. He knows it’s not his fault she got sick, but that didn't stop her voice echoing in his mind every time he thought of her. What if he set Lydia off again? What if just the sight of him made her lose all the progress he’s made? The thought seizes him.

He hears Derek on the stairs and curls onto his side so he doesn’t have to see the man standing in the doorway. 

“Stiles.”

If you ignore a problem sometimes it goes away. Not when that problem is Derek Hale. The bed protests at the added weight. Warmth radiates at his back where he knows Derek is.

“Scott says she’s asking for you,” Derek says quietly, his breath soft on the back of Stiles’ neck.

That’s another thing he’s getting used to. Scott and Derek. Derek and Scott. You could look forever and never find a likeness between the two of them until they started talking. Both had a streak of stubbornness a mile wide running through them. When they agree on something, which is rare, it’s damn impossible to escape their twin attack. Stiles takes the cowards way out and shifts right there in the bed. Derek sighs like he’s annoyed, but he shuts up and lets Stiles nose into him without too much complaint.

The position is familiar, habitual. The act of curling against Derek remains as reassuring as it had been two months ago on the wolf’s thousand dollar couch five hundred miles away. There’s a mindlessness to being in fur, the heightened base instinct that allows him to indulge without embarrassment. They’re living in a state of limbo. Derek still has a house in Oregon to go back to, Scott is certified deceased hiding out in his mother's house like a ghost, and Stiles is only twenty one. He’s going to have to decide what to do with the rest of his life at some point. 

All of it can wait. For now he buries his cold nose deeper into Derek’s side. 

Parrish does come over for dinner, along with Scott and Allison. Derek never left. It’s getting to the point where it’s comfortable, everyone familiar with the routine of setting the table and the fact that Scott doesn’t like tomatoes and Parrish wont eat mushrooms and no one comments on the lack of red meat after the last Stilinski staredown. Stiles is almost able to look at Allison without wanting to gouge her eyes out. She didn’t kill Scott, and she can’t be blamed for not knowing about the bond between them when no one knew just how deep and serious it was, but she still had Scott for four years and Stiles had no one. Nothing. 

Forgiveness is a work in progress. 

“There’s not that much of a difference, man. Space, aliens, magic powers.“

“Dude, I can’t believe we’re friends. There’s no way you mean the words coming out of your mouth. Dad, I’m calling in backup.”

He looks imploringly at his father, who pointedly spears a head of broccoli. Stiles rolls his eyes at the dramatic slow crunch as he chews. If he ever wondered where he got his dramatics, he’s figured it out. Allison grins like a nymph behind her glass and Parrish is chuckling a little too hard.

“Deputy, please inform this young man of the ways in which he has erred.” 

A phone jingles before Parrish can get a word in and Allison pushes away from the table. 

“It’s Lydia,” and that’s enough to hush the table as she ducks out of the room to answer. 

Stiles determinedly blocks the quiet murmurs of the conversation started in the other room. His fork scrapes where he pushes a carrot around his plate. He has a feeling everyone is making awkward eye contact around him, listening in and pretending not to. It’s cut when Allison comes back and his dad, bless him, goes for it. 

“How’s she doing?”

Scott clears his throat in a wheezy way he does only around his mom or Stiles’ dad when he’s in trouble or embarrassed. 

“There’s been some trouble with, uh… “ wheeze, “adjusting. Her dad… ”

“Is a douche and ran off on them. Her mum’s doing okay, I think, and Lydia says she misses the dog more than him.”

Allison swearing is always a bit of a shock, but Stiles is a little more hung up on the news about Lydia’s parents. He stares at his plate and tries to swallow down the questions bubbling like bile in his throat. Is she sleeping? Does she still have nightmares? Hallucinations? He stuffs his mouth with a forkful of greens. 

“Have there been any signs?”

“Derek,” And there’s Parrish, peacekeeper extraordinaire, but from a glance at the low set of Derek’s eyebrows Stiles can tell it’s too late. The tension ramps back up to suffocating levels. 

“I don’t think interrogating her is appropriate yet. She’s still settling back home.” Scott’s voice sounds a bit distant from across the table and Stiles’ vision narrows in on the sweating vegetables on his plate. 

“We need to know, Scott.” 

Scott grunts in the way that makes him seem like a moody kid. Not his best. 

Allison jumps in for him, “We do know. She’s home and safe, if a little spooked.”

Stiles puts his fork down the fourth time he misses a piece of broccoli. 

Derek rolls his eyes, Stiles doesn’t see it but he can tell by the pause before he speaks, “We don’t know why she never changed after being bit by an Alpha. She could become a threat to the Pack.” 

Did he remember to leave the window open when he took the food off the stove? It gets kinda warm in the house when there’s so many people over, maybe he should go check cause it’s like, really hot right now. 

“Lydia isn't some villain in the making. She’s scared and confused, yeah, but it was your uncle who put her through all of this shit to make her that way,” Scott protests.

Someone else is talking, a murmur too low to be heard over the ringing in his ears. He really needs to go open a window, it’s hard to breathe. 

“That’s precisely the reason I’m concerned. If she’s vindictive it will be the wolves she comes for, and you have no idea what she might be capable of or how far she’ll go.” 

“Stiles,” His name yanks him to bright green eyes Stiles squints to focus on. Parrish. “Are you okay?” 

Yeah. Yeah he’s fine. He wants to say so, but first he needs to breathe. 

“It won't be us, it’ll be you.” Stiles should tell Scott he needs to calm down, this conversation surely doesn’t need to be so fucking loud. 

A solid weight grips his shoulder. Parrish again. He’s leaning in close, too close maybe. 

“Your heart is racing,” 

Is it? Sweat stings his eyes. Stiles blinks it away and can’t refocus when he opens them. 

“Forgetting doesn’t make it less true,” Derek growls, “He may have been my uncle, but he was your father.” 

Stiles flinches at the chair thrown back into the wall before Derek’s done speaking. Scott’s leaving, Stiles is vaguely aware. Or more than vaguely, because there’s this deep claw lodged in his stomach telling him to follow just like Allison does, and he would, wants to, but there’s another stuck in his back tying him to Derek’s side. 

“Stiles?” 

He runs a hand over his face instead of answering Parrish, and he can’t follow Scott but he can’t stay here. He can’t. 

“I gotta…” it’s all he can get out as he stumbles out of his chair and fumbles with the back door. 

The first steps outside he takes on four paws and uses the jitters rolling beneath his fur to spur him on, further and further away. It does no good. Every step is another inch the claws sink deeper into his skin. He runs as long as he can bear and then circles around, back to the house. 

The dining room is empty and quiet when he re-enters the back door. Someone was thoughtful enough to start the dishwasher and clear the table. Derek’s shadow is pacing the living room. Stiles walks past him while shrugging on the damp shirt he left on the ground outside like an idiot. Derek’s footsteps follow him up the stairs. 

“You shouldn’t keep leaving like that,”

“You shouldn’t keep speaking to Scott like that,” Stiles counters. Derek wants to be a stubborn ass, fine. Stiles isn’t above being an asshole too. 

“He needs to be taking this seriously.” 

They turn into Stiles’ room with steps in time with each other.

“He is taking it seriously, Derek. Being aware of other people's feelings isn't a lesser human trait, it’s actually what makes Scott Scott.” He shrugs out of the shirt and jeans he just put on and shoves his feet into worn flannel pants. 

“I’m not saying-” 

“You are!” Stiles interrupts, spinning to face the man with a wild gesture, “You practically called him a dipshit. To his face.” 

He huffs and pulls at his hair when Derek stays silent. Typical. He flops onto his bed. Blindly he grabs his phone from the bedside table to find a few texts from Allison lit up.

Allison  
I’ll talk with Lydia. Delicately.  
And I’m not pushing it if she doesn’t want to.  
Scott says he felt you shift. You ok???

Stiles responds with a few thumbs up and throws his phone down in a huff. He can still feel Derek hovering. 

“Allison’s gonna talk with her.” Derek’s silence goes sour. 

Stiles turns his head to see the pained face Derek makes every time an Argent is mentioned. He groans and rolls over, flicking the lamp off and stuffing his face into the duvet, letting his aching body finally go limp and sink. Derek’s trust issues aren’t going to disappear over night, and Stiles is wrung out from dinner and shifting and two months of doing this dance over and over. Everything can wait until morning. Like a bad case of Groundhog Day he’ll get to do it all again, and soon it’ll have been three months and everyone will still be stuck where they are now.. 

Derek goes to sleep on the couch that night. Stiles is exhausted, but when he turns over for the hundredth time the glaring red numbers read 3:07 and sleep is nowhere close. He huffs and flops onto his back, hating himself a little as he stares at the dark ceiling. 

“Derek.”

A creak in the hall and two breaths later the dark outline of Derek slides into the bed and the claws in Stiles’ back ease their way out. 

-

“Yo, daddy-o,” Stiles calls as he jumps down the last few stairs, “I’ll be at Scott’s tonight. Sure Mel wouldn’t mind feeding you after shift, think she’s got the day off.”

He navigates around his dad to swipe the coffee pot from the kitchen counter and a mug, wiggling the pot a bit so he gets every last drop of beautiful bean water. 

His dad hums as he shrugs on his creased Sheriff's jacket, “I’ll give her a call.”

His dad departs and Stiles enjoys a blissful bowl of cereal in silence. His bed was empty when he woke up, not unusual. Derek always did come and go as he pleased. 

He finds Scott in much better spirits than the last time he saw him. 

“Dude, Allison told me they brought back the Volcano!” is the first thing he hears before a hyperactive Scott bounces in front of him. It takes a second to compute.

“Shit, really?” 

The Volcano was a drink the diner used to make when they were kids. Every birthday and celebration growing up had been accompanied with the sweet mixture of Coca-Cola, milk, and cherry syrup, topped with a heavy swirl of whipped cream for good measure. They’d stopped making it, along with a few other classics, when the diner switched owners. 

Stiles has already eaten, but damn, he’s not going to say no to second-breakfast. He has to pinch himself on the drive over, Scott in the passenger seat of the Jeep with a goofy crooked grin and Blink-182 blasting through the stereo. Every few seconds he looks over to make sure Scott’s hair isn’t floppy under his borrowed Mets cap, and the stereo has been upgraded from cassette to CD, and he has ten fingers curled around the steering wheel. This is not a dream. 

An errant, niggling little concern weaves itself into his mind. It’s the memory of the last time he went out with Scott and ended up crouched in a corner until Derek could come and get him. But it should be fine, because he spent the entire night with Derek and he feels settled sitting next to Scott and fuck if he’s going to continue hibernating like a coward over something so stupid.

The Jeep jerks and lurches unceremoniously into a parking space. 

“I’m thinking waffles. Can’t go wrong with waffles,” Stiles says just to say as they plop out and the Jeep doors slam behind them. 

Scott puts a hand to his chest to imitate clutching pearls, “But sausage! And bacon! Bro, you can not forget about the bacon.” 

Stiles laughs along with the little bell above the door as he pulls it open, looking back at Scott. 

“Waffles and bacon, I’m here for…” A flash of red by the window, “it.”

Stiles freezes. It’s the back of her head in a booth, and it could be any girl, but he spent years memorizing the exact shade of her hair and there’s only ever been one Lydia Martin. His skin breaks out into goosebumps and a sweat in the same wave. He trips into Scott as he backs up. Anger swells as he turns on him. 

“Really?” He spits. 

Scott looks pretty honest in his surprise, but it seems too coincidental for Stiles to believe. 

“I had no idea,” Scott hisses, “I swear. I didn’t even think she knew him.” 

Stiles’ head swivels and nearly bites his tongue off when he sees the guy sitting on the other side of the booth. Jordan Parrish. So maybe this is a big coincidence, but Stiles isn’t happy about it. He needs to leave. Right now, before she sees him. 

Except Parrish has definitely seen them by now, and he’s already calling their names. Lydia’s hair flips in a waterfall of soft curls when she turns her head and looks straight at him. Maybe she’s smiling that strawberry glossed smile he used to dream of, he can’t be sure. He looks away too quickly to tell. The bell above the door clatters when he yanks himself through and he doesn’t turn back when Scott calls. He storms towards the Jeep and throws himself into it, barely waiting for Scott to climb in beside him before ripping out of the lot. 

They spend their time on the sofa, tossing pillows and game controllers at each other. Stiles manages to ignore Scott glancing at him every five seconds for most of the morning. By mid afternoon Stiles has migrated to the floor with his back against the couch and he drops his controller, rolling his head back to meet his sad-puppy-eyed friend still seated up on the cushions. 

“Spit it out.”

“You know she wasn’t herself when she saw you in there,” The words rush out, no doubt having been on the tip of Scott’s tongue all morning. “I think she was really hurt when you ran away.”

“I didn’t run away, I just got grossed out by the idea of greasy diner food. It’s starting to lose it’s appeal after all the research I’ve done for my dad. Did you know two slices of bacon can-”

“She misses you, dude.” Scott says bluntly and he looks so earnest Stiles has to turn away from the brunt of it. The close cut of his hair on the sides, the sharper line of his jaw, it’s weird. Not quite the same Scott that left. 

For a moment a weak little ember glows in Stiles’ chest at the thought of Lydia ever admitting she misses him. Then Stiles closes his eyes and remembers the sheer force of hate in her eyes the last time they spoke. Whatever she said now, he knew deep down she did blame him, at least a little bit. She was right to. So if he could help it, he would make sure he never caused her that sort of pain again. The best way to do so was to stay out of sight and out of mind. They never were real friends, anyway. 

“Just…” Stiles chews his lip, “Give it a little more time, yeah?” 

Scott looks pretty pained to agree, but Stiles must look pitiful enough because he sighs and lets it go. They focus on their characters running around for a silent moment. 

“So…” and there’s that wheezy cough of awkwardness that makes Stiles’ hackles rise in trepidation, “Allison and I. We’re kinda thinking of getting a place with her inheritance.” 

“Okay?” 

It’s a solid plan. Not only was her grandfather batshit crazy, he’d apparently been super loaded. He also thought Allison was taking on the family business of killing monsters unlike the only other remaining family member, her father, so he left almost everything to her. 

“Well, I can’t put my name on a mortgage. And she’s not exactly fond of the… memories here.” 

So they’d have to move to another town. Maybe even a different County. Claws start piercing the tender flesh of his belly. 

“Oh,” Stiles sounds a little winded, but he can’t think of anything else to say. Oh. 

“We can’t stay here forever, Stiles. I’m gonna miss the shit out of mom, but she understands. We probably won't even be that far. Glenn County is like, an hour away. Just the other side of the number five.” 

“I think,” Stiles struggles, radio static in his brain and a dizziness from phantom pain he wishes wasn’t so familiar, “you should call Derek.” 

“Shit, I’m sorry Stiles. I didn’t think-” the rest is lost to him under a roaring note of pain. 

It feels like being skinned alive. Like the first time Derek left him alone in that big empty house, but a thousand times worse. At some point Scott goes to step away and Stiles reaches out with a vice grip. 

“Don’t.” 

Don’t leave me. His whole body is screaming with it. Brother, don’t leave me here. 

A broad hand slots between his shoulder blades and Stiles feels stupid little tears gather at the feeling of his Alpha scenting him, rough stubble gentle against his neck. 

“I’m sorry,” he mumbles into Derek’s shoulder, “fuck. This is so stupid. I’m sorry.”

“It’s fine.” Derek says like he always does, and the embarrassment and anger burn hotter inside Stiles’ chest. Maybe Derek doesn’t mind, but Stiles really fucking does. 

Melissa comes home from errands while they’re watching The Godfather. It’s long and sort of boring and the right kind of familiar for the rag tag pack to settle into. Mama McCall starts on dinner and soon enough Stiles’ dad is there smelling like his stale office coffee and Allison wanders in to curl up by Scott. They eat dinner on the coffee table. The parents chat quietly in the kitchen over their own dishes, the rumble of their combined laughter a soothing soundtrack. Stiles falls asleep with his head in Derek’s lap and his legs tangled with Scott’s. 

-

It starts small, so small Stiles thinks he’s imagining it. The way Derek wont walk down certain streets, the stubborn refusal to go to the movie theatre, and the tension in his shoulders when girls with heavy perfume walk by. Stiles doesn’t think they’re connected until he’s accompanied Derek on one of the frequent grocery trips necessary to sustain the amount of people that keep showing up on the doorstep. They’re walking down the street, or Stiles is walking down the street and Derek’s been distracted by something because his presence at Stiles’ back is instantly filled with a cold spot. When he glances over his shoulder he sees the man smiling something soft and rare at a boy band poster printed big in a shop window. He looks away when Stiles makes questioning noises. 

“My sister always said she hated them, but she had the CD’s under her bed.”

Sister. Right, because Derek was Derek Hale, of the Hales that had burned to death in the preserve his dad always told him not to go near. It’s not that he forgot Derek was a Hale, it’s more like he forgot what it really meant about his past admist scrambling to find Scott, but now. It scratches at the back of his mind. 

An hour later while the food is being bagged by a pimple faced high schooler he’s texting Allison a stupid meme, a rebuilding friendship tactic, and when Derek catches sight of her name on his phone he gets that face, the ‘Argent’s are Assholes’ face and seriously he needs to get over whatever grocery parking lot brawl over the last box of twinkies happened in his childhood. 

The thought sends such a shock through Stiles’ brain waves that he fumbles the phone so badly he’s already accepted the shattered screen he’s going to have when Derek swipes it out of the air for him. He gets two raised eyebrows and his phone handed to him. He laughs it off, but he can’t commit to it because he remembers. He remembers Derek has worse things in his past than a lack of corn syrup and sugar, and he remembers the man saying ‘one of theirs murdered my pack, I killed her back,’ when they first showed up in Beacon Hills. He hadn’t had the mental capacity to unpack all that back then, but things start to connect.

He doesn’t know what to do with it all once he’s got strings spun out on the inside of his brain. Derek killed Allison’s aunt, which it must have been her because all of the other known Argent deaths Stiles has accounted for, because Allison’s aunt killed his entire family. That’s some heavy shit, and Derek’s been in the woods by himself for a while before Stiles met him based on how much of a routine the guy had down, so it’s not a big jump to say he’s never really talked about it. How Stiles is going to broach that subject of Derek’s dead family he has no idea, but he feels he should every time Derek goes through a phase of being particularly broody. 

He does it with the same grace and tact he does everything with, which is to say, none at all. They’re setting up camp in the living room, chips and soda and an endless supply of candy that’s going to make his tongue turn blue. It’s perfect. He settles into his usual corner and hears Derek approaching with freshly popped popcorn. 

“I think this is actually better than the theatres. Scott and I always get kicked out ‘cause we can’t help but narrate if we’ve seen the movie, and I had what I’m pretty sure was the worst first date in history in theatre number four.” And then he puts a wad of gummy candy in his mouth and just goes for it, “When’s the last time you went?”

What he’s expecting is to hear about something like taking his sisters or an awkward date, not… 

“A date,” which is cool, yeah, relatable. “With Kate Argent.”

Stiles chokes on his candy flavoured saliva and painfully swallows the lump of it without really chewing. Derek’s looking at him like he’s waiting to be bombarded, and fair enough because Stiles has so. many. questions. But the way Derek’s shoulders hunch around his ears tells him which one is definitely the most important here..

Once he’s done regulating his breath he tentatively asks, “Do you want to talk about it?”

“No,” Derek looks a bit wounded and Stiles thinks he’s seriously fucked and he needs to put the movie on a shut the hell up, but before he can Derek continues, “but you should know.”

While that’s not exactly what Stiles was looking for he takes it because it’s most likely the best he’s going to get at an opportunity. He adjusts his weight in the lumpy cushions and in his lap the candy bag crinkles loudly. 

“So, Kate. You and her were like, dating?” Derek shrugs a nod. “When?”

“I was sixteen.” Stiles tries to do the math because he doesn’t remember how old she was but it doesn’t feel like it fits. Derek must see his brain hurt, “She was twenty. I was an easy way to get to my family.” 

“You killed her, right? After she… “ murdered your family. Derek grinds his jaw when he nods. “Good.”

Stiles tries to settle with the fact that she’s dead, and digging up her body to tear it into several more pieces won't help anybody, even if it might make him feel a whole lot better. They put the film on. If he curls up a little closer to Derek than normal it’s only because he can see how it helps the guy steady his breath. 

Halfway through with an arm over his shoulders he mutters into Derek’s side, “Thank you, for sharing.”

Derek’s thumb strokes his shoulder. 

-

The stupid things is, all of those lessons Derek gave him while they were in Oregon? Yeah, those kinda go to shit. Stiles took three years of Spanish in high school, and at one point he used to practice with Melissa on the rare days she had off and was making dinner while Scott had math homework Stiles had already finished. Now, if pressed, he can ask where the washroom is and order a beer. Senses are like good ol’ espanol, if you don’t use it you lose it. 

This is why he foolishly opens the front door expecting the postman and finds-

“Lydia,” he startles. 

The sundress is a little short, a little tight, and a lot sexy. Her hair is longer than he remembers, glossy waves leading down and curling around the low cut neckline. She’s a vision in pink lip gloss and high heels. Every nerve ending in his body screams for him to run as fast as he can in the opposite direction. 

“Aren’t you going to invite me in?”

He’s in old flannel pants with holes in them and a lacrosse shirt that’s starting to get a little clingy. If he were sixteen he’d be dying. But he hasn’t been in love with Lydia for a long time, and his current panic has more to do with abhorrent fear than his wardrobe. It takes a lot of swallowing and convincing for his tongue to work. 

“I don’t-”

“Stiles. Invite me in.” Her tone is no longer teasing, an edge that leaves no room for rebuttal.

Reluctantly he steps back and watches her navigate into the kitchen. He follows like a man walking the gallows. She takes in the small space, haloed by the sun spilling in by the sink. So quickly she turns to him he has to blink at the fierce slant of her features.

“I’m not crazy.”

“I never sa-”

“Let me finish,” she tuts. He ducks his head like a scholded schoolboy, hands sweaty. “I was never crazy, Stiles. I’m a banshee.”

He bites his tongue waiting for her to continue, but when she doesn’t, “A what?”

“A banshee. Screaming and generally sensing impending doom, which leads to why I deigned to visit someone who’s actively been avoiding me.” Her eyes cut accusingly at him. 

He crosses his arms and deflects, “So you know about the wolves and the… me.” 

“Yes, Parrish has been the only one to actually show promising communication skills out of the bunch of you.” She starts peering into cupboards as she speaks, teetering in her heels to assess top shelves. “Instead of turning me Peter’s bite made me listen in on a certain frequency. They overwhelmed me, clearly,” she rolls him a bland look. Like her four year stint in Eichen could be a blase topic. “I learned how to tune them out. I’ve stopped the screaming now, too. Much to my mother's delight.” 

Like a magician she brandishes an electric kettle from the depths of a cupboard and rinses it. 

“Usually it’s like switching off a radio, I feel the need to scream when they’re persistently bothersome about someones upcoming demise,” she sets the kettle under the tap to fill with water. “Do you know what I felt like doing when I saw you in the diner?”

His fingers dig into the meat of his biceps. A delicately painted finger flicks the kettle on to boil. 

“Screaming.”

They have tea. It’s old, probably bought by his mom, but comforting to have something in his hands to stare into as Lydia explains he’s going to die soon. There’s not a lot he can do about it, given he doesn’t plan on making any life threatening choices in his daily routine. Gloomily he figures it would be just his luck to die choking on cereal or slipping in the shower. 

“I don’t think it’ll be an accident, otherwise I wouldn’t feel it coming.” Lydia says. “Whatever it is, it’s already starting to kill you.”

Stiles puts his elbows on the table and sinks his head into his hands so she won't see whatever's happening on his face. Headaches. Insomnia. Irritability. It doesn't take a genius. 

“Give me a bit to think about it, Lyds,” he says a bit desperately, “At least the end of the day.”

It’s not unreasonable given how she swore it didn’t feel like it was coming on too quickly. He only needs a few hours to think before really sounding the alarm bells. Before admitting he already knows. 

“Jordan knows,” instant fear zings through him. Parrish wouldn’t tell something like that to his dad, though. Would he? Lydia sighs because she can probably tell by the wide eyes and rigidity of his bones exactly what he’s thinking. “He’s not an idiot. End of the day. Then you’re introducing me to your two hundred pound shadow.”

They finish their cold teas slowly because he’s pretty sure neither wants to walk away first. Impending death aside, it’s kinda nice. 

-

Derek misses Lydia by ten minutes, two arm loads of groceries hanging off of him. There’s no way he misses the smell of her in the house, but he blessedly doesn’t mention it. Stiles leaves him to jenga the fridge and plans to shower so he can process the second surprise he’s inherited from his mother. Freckles and brown eyes would have been fine enough. 

The phone call comes when he’s got a towel still wrapped around his waist and a mouth full of toothpaste. It’s the phone call he’s been waiting for his entire life, but he still wasn’t expecting it. Not when his dad finally cut down on his hours and spent most of them behind a desk. Not when he was standing in the McCalls’ kitchen last night eating a second piece of pie like Stiles wouldn’t notice. 

The call goes something like:

Parrish above a racket of noise and out of breath, “He’s been taken to Beacon Hills Memorial. It was to the gut, there’s good chances. He’s probably going into surgery but I’m stuck doing the fucking report so I don’t know more, I’m sorry.” 

And he can’t get a hold of Mellissa because she’s probably doing her job, and that’s good, that’s fine, but Stiles really needs to know what the hell is going on because his dads just been shot. 

Derek’s got the truck started as Stiles scrambles to pull on shoes he’s not sure even match and they might be speeding the whole way there but it stills feels like tooslow-tooslow-tooslow and Stiles slams into the front counter with a tangle of words on his lips and the only thing that’s keeping him breathing is the solid press of a hand between his shoulder blades. 

His dad is in surgery, and there’s nothing he can do but wait. 

Scott arrives while he’s pacing from one end of the hall to another and joins Derek in the cracking vinyl chairs. Mellissa gives him a crushing hug and reassuring words that make his eyes water and he hates it. Hates this. The sterile smell of a hospital and the flat lighting and the distant sounds of people going about their daily lives while his entire world is crashing. 

He stares at his dad pale in the bed and can’t stop the immediate thought that they’ll be switching places pretty soon. Anxiety takes his ribs and crushes them until they stab his lungs, constricting everything in his chest until an itch under his skin tries to drag him into a shift, but he can’t run away right now. Not this time. 

The bullet tore a hole through his dad’s stomach. The surgeons managed to stop the internal bleeding, but the bullet wasn’t extracted. Like a time bomb they can’t see the clock on, it’s a waiting game if the offending bit of metal will lead to poisoning or not. Tomorrow, years from now, never. They won’t know unless they risk a second surgery. 

Stiles slumps into the extra chair they dragged in next to Derek and stares at his dad’s vulnerable form under bleached white hospital blankets, a soft beeping singing reassurance. 

“Have you discussed… “ he meets Derek’s eyes when the man trails off. They flash red. 

“No,” Stiles croaks, voice sore from the panic that's been choking him for hours. “We’d have needed an Alpha, and the only one I’d met before… didn’t leave me overly enthused to track one down.” 

“Would you decide for him now, if you had to?”

They’re interrupted by Scott returning with a handful of vending machine snacks. A bag of chips is thrown into Stiles’ lap but the thought of it is nauseating and he tosses it aside.

“Dude, it’s his dad,” Scott gestures at Stiles’ dad from where he’s settled into the chair on the other side of the bed. Stiles looks between Derek’s hard line of a mouth from being interrupted and Scott’s oblivious face, “anything for ohana.” 

Derek breathes in deep before he starts and Stiles rubs his forehead at the beginning of a headache. 

“There are risks involved. Generally you need to decide before someone is in too critical of a condition, and the bite doesn’t take to everyone.”

Stiles perks up from where he’s hunched over a bit from the dull pain in his head, “What do you mean?”

“Like a transplant or infusion, there’s always a chance someone’s body will reject the shift, “ Derek meets his squinting eyes as he explains. 

“How often?” 

Derek doesn’t respond right away. Stiles forces his eyes to refocus on the man, with effort. There’s something off about his posture, something Stiles recognizes. Too defensive. Another ‘don’t poke with a stick’ topic. 

“It’s not common. I’ve still seen it happen,” Derek says with a stiff jaw. 

Scott’s voice calls his attention to the other side of his dad’s prone form, “But we’d have to try, wouldn’t we? We can’t just let someone die.” 

“You’re not listening.” Stiles jumps a beat after Derek’s voice thunders, “It’s impossible to wait until someone is on the brink of death. The bite has to happen while there’s still a chance they’d survive without it.” Stiles narrows in on Derek’s fingers stiffly unhanding the wooden armrests, deep gouges left in their place. “It’s always a gamble.”

Stiles tries to look at Derek’s face again, but lights reflect off of every semi-white surface in the room and peirce like tiny daggers into his eyes. He closes them to block it out. 

Scott’s insistent cry, “But it’s the Sheriff!”

“It doesn’t matter who it is if they can’t consent knowing the danger-”

“Doesn’t matter,” Stiles repeats, cutting in as Scott opens his mouth to go any further. 

And Scott’s great, Stiles loves his best friend, but he can’t handle listening to the argument any longer. Not when he doesn’t actually know which one he sides with and the pain blooming at his temples is warping the deafening sound of their voices. Scott gives him guilty puppy eyes and Derek avoids looking at anyone in general. 

“Nurses say he’s gonna come through in a few hours and we can talk about it then. No point debating.” He says with hands spread out to placate. 

His lungs swell with a deep breath, hold for a moment, and let it seep out slowly in an effort to settle his bones. He slumps into his chair. Just a few more hours. Then his dad will open his eyes and the world will start picking itself back together. Until then he presses into the solid embrace of the least ergonomic chair he’s ever sat in. The inside of his mouth is shredded from where he’s chewed the soft skin of his cheeks.

He wakes up groggily an unknowable amount of time later with a chair full of werewolf on either side of him. 

x

Scott McCall is a good guy. It’s a fact he takes pride in. He grew up watching his mother help anyone she could and the trait had definitely been passed on. It is perhaps why he and Stiles become friends so quickly, because if there was someone who constantly needed help, it was Stiles. Be it taking part in a master plan that was likely to end with them both grounded or collecting bottles to get enough for a new comic, Scott was always there to help him out. During the four years travelling with Allison he’d helped every confused elderly person they passed at airports and train stations because it was the right thing to do. Like his mom always said: if you can help, you should. What his mom also said was ‘do no harm,’ and right now…. 

He is seconds away from commiting murder. 

Christopher Argent sighs like he has any right to be exhausted, “It was a long time ago, I don’t expect you to understand.” 

“Dad!”

The plan had been to clear out the Argent dungeon. Not particularly a place Scott wanted to step foot in after his first and only experience at the hands of a psychotic jerkwad. Allison managed to sell him on some introspective talk about finding closure and assisting in the rebirth of her family. She really just wanted the help of his supernatural strength, and he really just wanted to make her happy. 

It took coming home to realise he didn’t miss living with his mother the way he thought he had, he just missed her company and big hugs. Living apart from Allison again was starting to make him itch to move forward with her, made him realise how glad he was to have already bought a ring. They’re not rushing it, he wont ask until they have a place of their own and stable jobs, but he knows emotionally they’re both ready. Not spending every moment with her is an adjustment he doesn’t want to get used to. Really, he wants to make her happy because a happy Allison usually leads to the now rare sexy times with Allison. 

What he hadn’t planned on was Mr. Argent asking after Stiles. And then asking Scott to pass on his apology. And when Scott asked him what he was apologizing for… 

“You killed Stiles’ mom?” The chains he’d been dragging drop from his gloved hands in a clatter.

“Gerard conducted the plan. He was manipulative, had a way with words. Kate and I executed it on his orders.”

Scott curls his hands into fists. His claws cut through the thick hide gloves and sink deep into his palms. It does nothing to shake the pressing desire to tear Chris Argent’s throat out. He wants a drop of blood for every tear Stiles shed. 

“But we saw her get sick. Stiles… “ he chokes on the name, “he had to watch her completely lose her mind.”

“And I’m sorry for it-” 

“It took months,” Scott snarls. 

Chris startles, like he’s just realised how heavy Scott is breathing, how unhinged he feels. His jaw aches from the restraint to keep his fangs in. Under the rage he tries to put it together, but the pieces don’t fit. 

“She was in the hospital! How’d you do it?”

“Scott,” Allison presses in behind him, and maybe she’s right. 

It’s a bad idea. But he remembers how Claudia smelled of spring flowers and the way she used to ruffle his hair just the same as she did Stiles’. He meets Chris’ uncertain eyes in a challenge, he needs to know.

“Poison. Spread over time in increasing doses. The doctor was on the payroll to swing the results. Gerard insisted she was dangerous, said she couldn’t control the fox in her and would create chaos.”

“Scott,” Allison insists while tugging lightly at his arm. 

Shame flares in him when he growls at her, but it’s impossible to restrain himself. He hasn’t felt like this since he started going feral. The thought chills the rational side of him. Stiles is fine. He’s fine. Scott just saw him at the house when he visited the Sheriff, who is making an amazing recovery. Already resting on the couch instead of a hospital bed. Stiles was maybe a bit stressed and tired, but he was alive. 

It’s no good, because as much as Stiles is his anchor, Scott's still not quite over the visceral pain of finding his blood and a trail gone cold in the woods. How quickly the earth slid beneath his feet like grains of sand until he completely destabilized. It’s all overlaid with the months of twelve year old Stiles crying and clinging. They had so many sleepovers he can barely recall a single night they spent apart for over a year. Derek said it’s because Scott was a Hale and Stiles’ newly inherited fox found comfort in the bloodline. Scott thinks it’s because they were Scott McCall and Stiles Stilinski and they’ve loved each other since they were this tall. 

He does the only thing he can do. He bolts. 

Stiles is laughing when he finds him. He and Derek are in the backyard of the Stilinski house laying in the grass. Derek is cursing at the leaves stuck in his hair while Stiles chuckles and pretends to help remove them while actually adding to the mess. 

Derek notices Scott first, his face turning grave at the sight of him.

“What’s wrong?”

Scott doesn’t meet his demanding eyes. He’s looking at the impish grin on Stiles’ face as he plants another leaf into Derek’s hair. As much as wants a future with Allison, he can’t imagine one without Stiles.

“Nothing.” Stiles has moved on to twigs. Scott feels his lips twitch, a notch releasing all the tension in his body. “Absolutely nothing.” 

x

Dad’s recovering well. Firmly glued to the armchair in the living room watching game reruns and day time westerns he swears he doesn’t follow, but Stiles has been told to hush up enough times to know not to interrupt when they’re on. Family dinners are still a thing, now with the added presence of Lydia between Allison and Parrish. No one says anything when Parrish puts an arm around her chair. No one says anything when Stiles doesn’t make eye contact with her.

He hasn’t told anyone about the premonition. She’d rather reluctantly agreed not to say anything until his dad was stable, but it’s been a week now and every time she’s around he has to avoid looking at her or he starts thinking of his mother for a completely different reason than he used to. It took his mom eight months from the first sign of headaches. He wonders if he’ll be lucky to get the same. 

Once the meal is done Scott and Allison take over the dish duty and Stiles beelines it upstairs with a half-baked excuse before Lydia can pin him down. Something makes him squint his eyes open halfway through washing his face and he jumps at the figure looming in the doorway. Soap immediately stings his eyes.

“You didn’t talk with your father.”

“Pretty sure you were at the table when we discussed the merits of -”

“About the bite.” Derek interjects, arms crossed. 

Stiles stretches the moment of rinsing his face and patting it dry with a hand towel, scrambling for the right words. Because the real reason he hadn’t talked to his dad about it is he doesn’t… want… to. Ever, if he can manage it. 

“Nope.” He pops the ‘p’. 

“Stiles,” Derek starts after him when he shoves past and heads down the hall. 

“Can we not?” He huffs and he sounds a bit like a child but sue him, he really doesn’t need Derek getting into this right now.

“You can’t keep avoiding things that make you uncomfortable. You didn’t do this back ho- in Oregon.” 

“Yeah, well I didn’t exactly use my head while I was there. Now I’ve got Scott threatening to move away with his ex-murderer of a girlfriend, who knows when you’re going to disappear, dad’s got a bullet lodged in his stomach and Lydia’s spewing bullshit about… everything.” He trails off as awkwardly as Derek had and if he hadn’t mentioned Derek’s hiccup he prays Derek will return the favour. 

“You think I can disappear on you?”

“You have a house!” Stiles rakes a hand through his hair because his words don’t really convey the ‘a house in the middle of the woods so that no one would ever find you and now you’re here surrounded by people and it’s only a matter of time until you get fed up with all of us and leave’ that he wants it to. He groans with hands over his face instead. “I don’t know what I think you plan to do.” 

When he drops his hands Derek’s eyes flash red, “I couldn’t disappear now if I tried.”

“Awesome, so you’re here because you’ve got no choice.” Stiles really needs to shut the fuck up, there’s a lot of bitterness he knows he shouldn’t be slipping into his words but it hurts, okay? Waking up next to Derek every morning hurts and he doesn’t want to pretend it doesn’t anymore. He turns around to stare absently at his wall of photos and clippings so at least Derek can’t see his face. ”Good to know why you’re still around.”

“That’s not fair, Stiles.”

Stiles whips around with anger, gets right in Derek’s face, “No? It’s been two months! We sleep in the same bed, for fucks sake, what are you waiting for?” 

Once the words are out he’s as shocked as Derek about it, but he doesn’t regret saying them. They’ve been on the cusp of something for so long it’s been driving him mad because he might not have much longer to wait. Derek, for his part, looks pissed. 

“You just admitted you weren’t thinking clearly when we met. I’m your Alpha, it’s easy to be confused-”

“I’m not a child anymore, and you are not your uncle.” He says it because he knows Derek’s still been cautious about where he puts his hands ever since they talked about it. Five years have passed though, and Stiles has dealt with it and moved on considering a hell lot of other, bigger, things have happened since he was sixteen. He narrows his eyes in challenge, “I know what I want. Do you?” 

Derek takes the last step between and the instant their bodies pressed together Stiles loses his breath. He’s wanted it for so long, and he’s touched Derek a thousand times, but never like this. The promise of it meaning more sends electricity through his veins and Derek’s lips aren’t even on him yet. He’s hovering, giving the moment time to settle, but smartly doesn’t ask if Stiles is sure. Stiles is pretty sure if he’d been asked he would have punched Derek in the face. 

Derek noses his jaw line until their lips meet softly. It stays that way for mere seconds before the reality of it hits him and Stiles leans into the broad chest. His hands quickly find the seam between Derek’s shirt and pants and slip onto the heated bare skin. 

They end up on the bed minutes, hours, who knows when later, shirts gone but pants firmly in place. Not yet. Not when it’s still new to be able to look at Derek without worrying about being caught staring. Their fingers draw patterns over the expanse of their skin as they lay next to each other, getting familiar in a new way. The excitement still brings goosebumps to Stiles’ arms, but the rush of anger and desire has faded into soft warmth in his stomach. He tries to cast out the ticking clock in the back of his head. 

He wants this, wants to be selfish and enjoy it without worrying about the ways his mind is slowly deteriorating. If he can have Derek just for a little while it will be enough. He’ll make it be enough. His thumb strokes over the contours of Derek’s face. 

“If Scott moved out of town would you follow him?”

“We’d have to.” Whoops, Stiles has to catch those nouns better because Derek’s got a crease in his forehead. He tries to smooth it out with the pad of his finger. 

“It’d be best, get you out of this town of misery and give Scott the chance to stop playing Casper” 

Derek’s hand is running along his side, bringing with it a wave of warmth every time it smooths over his ribs and returns to his hip as he thinks. 

“Would it be best for you?”

“It’ll work out.” Which isn’t an answer but Derek doesn’t get the chance to insist for one when his mouth is already busy.

He wakes up next to Derek, not an unusual thing. What makes this time particularly stand out is that they’re both still in pink skin and Derek’s dick is pressed right against his ass. He’s soft and warm and their bare torsos brush against eachother with every breath. It’s even better when Derek wakes up and starts placing small kisses on the back of his neck. He has to convince himself to tell Derek to stop before his mind takes off on where else he could put his mouth.

With his life going so well it’s only fair he spread the joy. Scotty boy has been seriously cooped up and he wants to do something nice for him considering there’s not a lot he can do about people freaking out if they see him on the street. They haven’t done it in a long time, since they were kids really, but he drags Scott out to the preserve for a game of tag. Unlike Derek and his super-alpha-sense-control it’s more fairplay between him and Scott. They can, and have, chase each other for hours. He asks Scott a thousand times if he’s alright with being back in these particular woods considering the history it holds for both of them, but he insists from the other side of the Jeep he’s fine. There’s a crooked smile on his face that makes Stiles feel like he’s glowing. He can be a good friend still. 

Without the fear of hunters or traps they let loose. At first they’re just running, enjoying the feel of freedom that comes with packed soil and the smell of evergreens. After dirt has found it’s way into the creases of their paws and their hearts are racing Stiles nips the end of Scott’s tail. Game on. 

They zip through the trees, dodging between branches with a deftness he could never imagine having on two feet. Scott is a presence he feels without seeing, without hearing he knows every step he’s taking. Like two phantoms they slide past each other in harmony, flowing together without thinking until it feels like each breath they take is in sync. The only thing to stop them is a cliff side. Stiles stops steps before it with his mouth wide open in a toothy facsimile of a grin, turning just in time to take Scott’s tackle to the stomach and they tussle like pups. 

Their paws are heavier as they trot back to the Jeep, relishing the nature around them. By the time they make it back hours have passed, the sun slowly growing amber on the horizon. Scott seems loose in a way Stiles hadn’t noticed he’d missed, his smile easy and satisfied. He swats at him with his rolled up t-shirt and pats himself on the back at the success of mission ‘cheer up best friend.’ 

A text from Allison makes Scott smile even brighter, and Stiles is on his own happiness high that it doesn’t really bother him because he has his own text from Derek asking how much chicken to take out of the freezer for dinner. It’s small, but it grants him a smile at the memory of their shared soft morning. 

He drops Scott off at Allison’s with a wave and a wink. With a glance at the sun he turns the Jeep around and heads again towards the preserve. One more go at it won't hurt. It’s been so long since he felt so settled into either of his skins and there’s enough space between the horizon and the sun for him to do another lap through the underbrush. 

The rush of pine scented wind reminds him of the weeks he spent in Oregon with Derek and he can barely wait to bring him out here, maybe get Scott to join again. When he passes a tree that still reeks of Scott he snorts at the thought of the two wolves having a literal pissing contest. 

The stupid things is, all of those lessons Derek gave him? Yeah, those kinda go to shit. Stiles doesn’t sense the buried trap until it’s clamped around his foot.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ummmm almost turned this into OT3 don’t hate meeee. We brushed by it but I left it alone (for now) 
> 
> Really not my best work here. I think we even pop tenses somewhere? Yikes. Sorry, the hearts completely left this story. I wrote the first part of this story 3 years ago. Hopefully this explains the major shift in style and tone and overall disjointedness.

Derek is more than aware of his penchant for bad luck. He can’t decide if it’s the overbearing paranoia or earnest pessimism that progressively starts to lessen the blow every time life fucks him over, but since taking up residence in the Stilinski household he’s been working on controlling both. So really, it’s his own damn fault it takes so long to notice. 

Stiles was hanging out with Scott, a ‘bro day’ he’d pumped himself up for while flitting around the kitchen in the morning. After months of being enveloped by a dull veneer it was shockingly refreshing to see the flare of giddiness in Stiles’ eyes. They grew brighter when Derek pulled him into his side, like he’s alway done, and kissed him, like he’s always wanted. Stiles spun out of the door with a smile so wide the memory of it had yet to fade from Derek’s mind. 

Baseboards coated in grime and overflowing gutters had understandably been the least of the Sherif’s worries when his son disappeared. The guilt of having kept Stiles to himself for such an indulgent amount of time urges Derek into motion, hunting down every odd job he has the knowledge to handle in a silent apology. He’s halfheartedly told not to bother when he passses by the man settled in his recovery nest of a recliner. Sometimes Derek gives in and watches a game or two, the company pleasant in the way neither expects anything from the other. John is amiable and sharper than his friendly smile leads on. After one painful and brutally honest conversation they don’t bring up where Derek lays his head at night. 

All day he stifles childish pangs of want. His thoughts repeatedly linger on the idea of dropping what he’s doing to seek Stiles wherever he’s run off to with Scott, just to see his face, just to feel his touch. He’d thought it had been hard holding back this craving when he didn’t dare cross the line, unsure if he was skewing reality with the hues of his desire, but now the permission to act on it had multiplied the incessant fantasies. His skin rolls with the itch to shake into fur and track the boy until he can feel his heartbeat on his tongue. 

Stiles had the right to be frustrated, but Derek couldn’t be blamed for his hesitance. Neither of them had stellar records. The bond between them only complicated things further. Stiles was becoming so strong willed and confident back on home turf, but Derek still sees the vulnerable look in his eyes on nights the moon doesn’t shine and the past seems closer than reality. It’s Derek's role as Alpha to support him in those moments. He’d be lying to say that’s the only reason he holds the boy close. 

It’s even harder when the boy fights against the bond every time Derek or Scott end up with a reluctant armful of Stiles. The first thing Derek made sure Scott understood was how serious they had to handle it. The fits of pain Stiles experienced from the bond were unpredictable, he wouldn’t be able to handle Scott going on even an hour long shopping trip a town over if it was ill timed. They were cutting down in frequency, but Derek had seen Stiles grimacing in pain over a headache more and more often in place of a full episode. To say he was becoming grouchy about it was an understatement. Hopefully things would settle soon and Derek could focus less on balancing the roles of Alpha and lover and just be. 

Derek shrugs his shoulders back and cranks his neck to the side in a fruitless attempt to relieve the tension pent up in his spine. His hands are near black from his day spent on the roof to fix three leaks patched to help the moisture his nose tells him is in the attic. And a full day it’s been. Only the ghost of daylight lingers in the sky, the sun having silently sunk to hide behind the hills. When his phone had pinged with a message from Stiles about dinner he’d assumed the boy was on his way home. A glance at the time brings a wave of dread, the message had been sent hours ago. 

He tries to fight the paranoia. It could be nothing. Stiles could have been persuaded into a round of games at Scott’s, could be stopping at the stores on his way back. It could be anything. Derek rises to his feet as the phone rings, and rings, and voicemail picks up. He calls one of the other limited numbers he has saved.

“Derek?” Scott’s voice comes through in a mumble.

“Is Stiles with you?” 

“He’s not home? He dropped me off forever ago.”

Derek curses and throws himself off of the roof, phone still to his ear as he drills into Scott for any information he has, it isn’t a lot. Stiles drove off in his Jeep five hours ago. If it had been something as simple as a breakdown on the side of the road he would have called. The urge Derek’s been fighting to ignore all day while daydreaming about pale skin is still there, as present as the need to be close to Pack always is. Derek allows himself to finally focus on it and can’t tell where it’s pulling him. There’s no direction to follow, no north on his compass. Like being swept up into a raging ocean and unable to tell where the surface that will save you. 

“Can you… “ he knows the answer before he speaks, but he swallows down the nausea of terror and asks anyway, “can you sense him?”

“Of course, I…” Scott’s scoff dwindles into dead air stretched on the line. There’s only so few reasons they wouldn’t be able to feel Stiles, and he knows Scott’s aware of it by the shake in his voice. It’s not an answer to the question, it’s a denial. “No.”

A noise interrupts them, raised female voices and Scott’s muffled response coming through the tiny speaker and Derek’s claws sink into his fist as he jams his keys into the truck and slams himself into the driver's seat.

“What is it?”

“Lydia’s here. She’s saying something about banshees and voices and-and Stiles, she says he’s in the preserve. We’re following her there.”

“Scott-” the line clicks. Derek resists the urge to crush it in his hand. 

A banshee. Harbinger of death. Something he hasn’t heard of one since his sisters tried to scare each other on Halloween as children, screaming around the house to startle one another. Things add up for the redheaded mystery of a woman Stiles has been keeping at bay. It makes sense why Peter’s bite didn’t turn her, why she would have felt like going insane, but Derek doesn’t want to think of why she would know where Stiles is. 

Another car skids over gravel behind him at the preserve gate, Lydia and the Argent he’s learning to tolerate visible in the front seats. Scott scrambles out with his head on a swivel, nose up, but Derek drove with the windows down the whole way and he hasn’t caught a hint of anything. He marches over to them. 

“Has she screamed yet?”

“She can speak for herself.” Derek moves his glare from Scott to her fiery gaze. “As I was explaining, Stiles has been on my radar since coming home. Something’s been killing him for awhile.”

Derek hackles rise. He’d held Stiles close all night, skin to skin. He wouldn’t have missed something killing him. “If you’re so sure about it why did you keep it to yourself?” 

“I informed him.” She insists with a scowl, “He told me he knew what it was. He swore he had more time.”

“You should have told me.” Scott says, claws dropped. 

“It was his choice.”

Derek’s over caring about past wrongs if it’s not going to help them find Stiles any faster. “Did he tell you what it was?” 

“Not outright, but it’s pretty easy to assume. His mother passed when we were kids. Frontotemporal dementia”

“That’s impossible!” Scott’s outburst shocks them, the outraged look on his face not helping explain. 

Allison steps in, “She wasn’t sick. My family poisoned her.” 

Derek’s fangs drop in a snarl, Scott’s hands on his shoulders the only thing keeping him from jumping on her. 

“It’s messed up, but it wasn’t her.” Scott says. Over his shoulder the woman remains stoic, but Derek knows she’d been startled. He can smell her fear and he’s glad of it. 

“Focus.” Lydia snaps. Derek grudgingly shoves out of Scott’s hold. “You think someone’s poisoning Stiles?” 

“Maybe we can ask Stiles once we’ve found him.” Derek grits out, impatient about all the standing around they’ve been doing when Stiles is still missing. He turns to the redhead, “Can you locate him?” 

“No, and we should be grateful about that.” 

“Why?” Allison counters. 

“Because it means he’s not dead yet.” 

It’s a fact Derek needs to keep reiterating to himself, and Scott probably feels the same by the way his breath evens out a touch just by hearing Lydia say it. Derek holds onto that as he thinks: What would stop them from sensing Pack? One sworn to him in blood, a bond so strong it practically kept Stiles pinned next to him. Derek’s gaze stops on the Argent with dawning horror. 

“Your family set traps here.”

Her brows crease like it’s a personal accusation, saying “We cleared them,” like she wants a fucking medal for it. 

“Obviously not all of them.” Derek seethes, “The only thing that could cut him off from us is a mountain ash circle. Hunters always set one to fall around their traps and cut off the captured beta from the Pack.”

Scott’s shaking his head like he knows anything about it, “But Stiles isn’t just Pack, you said the bond-”

“I said the blood bond runs deeper than Pack, but it’s still capable of being cut off by ash. He may as well be in a different Country.” He’s roaring like an animal, barely contained with the thought of what’s happened, what’s happening. 

Scott goes pale, he must remember the one and only time Derek had ordered him with red eyes. Do not leave Stiles alone. 

“It’s been five hours, Derek.” Derek shakes his head helplessly, the reminder unneeded. “How much longer?”

Derek tips his head back, his heart shattering at his own impotence. He’s got no idea. Until the redhead screams. 

“What’s he talking about?” The woman herself asks.

All he wants to do is run, push into fur and scour every inch of the earth. He’s seconds from following a swift footed Scott and doing so, but first he painfully explains. 

“Stiles is bound to the Hale line, something fickle that doesn’t react well stretched over distance or time. Too long without solidifying and it’ll tear him apart.” 

X

A rusty razor is sawing into his bones and he can’t feel it. The ancient trap around his ankle has nothing on the insurmountable pain boiling his flesh from the inside. When the cinch had clamped on him he’d been able to smell the bare trace of mountain ash under the leaves crushed beneath him. It had started, as it always does, with a headache. Morosely he starred in the direction of his Jeep, the direction of his phone and Scoot and Derek. He was so screwed. The invisible claws of the bond took their time digging into his guts, stripping down the length of his back like they were gouging through muscle. 

Rational thought left him a long time ago. Not a moment after the pain forced everything out of his stomach, his mind was overwhelmed by agony burning with the intensity of a star. He’s reduced to the animalistic instinct to survive. The earth has torn his flesh where he’s struggled, blood and dirt painting him in violent streaks of gore. The mess of his ankle looks unsalvageable. He’s pulled and yanked at it in desperate attempts to tear away from it no matter the cost. Thick coat of blood clogs his throat and his screams are reduced to hoarse choking after hours of unrepentant use. It’s been so long he’s flipped from feeling scorching heat to the enveloping hold of night's icy fingers. Senses near lost he’s completely disoriented, unable to comprehend if he’s on the ground or buried in it, if the leaves on his face mean he’s in a tree or suffocating on the ground. He doesn’t know why he can’t move. 

There’s a sound. Something new. Familiar. Through the crust of stale tears he sees motion. A man. Stiles’ chest shudders, jerks, he’s choking. No, he’s crying. Scotty boy. It takes the extent of his energy and focus to claw his arm in an outward stretch to him, his saviour. His fingers are inches too short. But Scott’s not getting any closer, not saving him. Stiles’ eyes slip shut in the grief, looking away from the allusion. His breathing comes faster in hyperventilating little gasps. He’s dying. He’s hallucinating because he’s dying. What a… What a fucking mess… 

Something snaps. A lightning bolt seizes him body and soul. His eyes are open, flew open with the shock, and he sees Scott so close he could count the strands of hair on his head. Vivid and real with hands pulling on Stiles even as Stiles scrambles in his hold with unfeeling limbs to get closer, not stopping until he’s collapsed in Scott’s lap and sobbing wetly into Scott’s chest. Scott’s hand rests heavy like a brand between his shoulder blades. Gently they rock as waves of relief wash through Stiles’ veins. 

A second hand presses into Stiles’ back, wiping the straggling remnants of pain from him. Someones humming something like a lullaby.

“You’re safe, Stiles. We’ve got you.”

For a moment he’s convinced it’s fake, he’s made this vision up in the last moments of insanity before death. He yanks his head from Scott’s shoulder, pulling away to see his face, put his hands on his cheeks and through his hair to make sure he’s real. He is. Has to be. Stiles keeps staring. 

It takes a long moment to realise what’s different. Scott’s eyes are vivid red. Their glow is all he sees before darkness.

He wakes feeling heavy. There’s a stained mark on the ceiling above him where he and a juvenile Scott threw neon putty. The pillow beneath his head is reassuringly his own. No hospitals when being a fox has small fast-tracked-healing benefits. 

“We’re even now.” The gruff voice of his father comes from the figure slumped on the floor beside him. “No more near fatal moments for the both of us.”

“Deal.” he croaks. Absently he strokes the fur of the large sleeping werewolf curled beside him. 

Hours later, the fourth or fifth time he’s woken and finally manages to lift his own water glass he turns to Derek, now in human skin and soft cotton. 

“What happened to Scott?”

“He found you first, was nearly feral again when he saw you. You were…” Derek huffs and rubs the stubble on his chin and Stiles knows, remembers just enough to put together how bad things were for a moment. “He pushed through the ash barrier with sheer force of will. The power it took must have turned him.”

Stiles quirks his lips a little. “My Scotty boy. Always exceeding expectations.”

Derek scoffs, a relieved breath of air to brush away too fresh memories. 

“Wait, aren’t you still?” Stiles flashes his eyes to answer his own question, knowing Derek’s will react in kind. They flash red, something Stiles is starting to find comforting. 

Derek stretches out along the small slice of bed he occupies, body pressing pleasantly along Stiles’ until he relaxes and dips to press a small kiss on Stiles’ forehead. 

“It’ll work out,” he says. And it isn’t an answer, but Stiles doesn’t get the chance to insist for one when his mouth is already busy.

A few days later Stiles is limping around on a foot he’s lucky to still have and scanning through house listings he’s convinced Scott to share with him. They’re still not too sure how things in the Pack dynamics are going to work, but Stiles can only have one Alpha. He loves Scott, he really truly does, yet he can’t see himself not living five minutes from his dad. 

Lydia breezes in with barely a pause at the door and settles into the other end of the couch. Stiles narrows his eyes at her audacity to be in pristinely applied makeup when she knew he was going to look like a slob. Have some respect for the wounded, jeez. 

“You’re not dying.”

His eyes narrow further. “Is this a test?”

She rolls her eyes in a way Stiles is becoming familiar with from a certain werewolf. Said Alpha is currently making unsettling noises of wreckage in the attic under the pretence of ‘fixing’ things. 

“You’re quiet, no impending doom.” 

“Do you think I was supposed to die there?”

“I can’t say,” she hums, her glare accusing like she blames him for her lack of knowledge. “Did anything change?”

A text erupts on his phone, a string of emojis from Scott over the amount of floor space for activities. A hammer starts up in the attic. He thinks of the claws in his stomach he hasn’t felt since the trap. It’s been days, definitely the longest he’s ever gone without feeling the piercing slice of the bond.

“There can only be one Alpha per pack,” he echoes Derek’s words. His brain starts unraveling colour coated strings to make sense of it. When Scott had been feral he’d become an Alpha, only returning to beta form because he’d saved Derek, but maybe he hadn’t fully been either. Like being in limbo. His wolf must have been waiting for the push, and consequently the bond had kept Stiles from settling with either of them for long. 

All this thinking makes Stiles’ stomach rumble with innocent hunger pangs. 

“You want cereal?”

Lydia rests back into the cushions, giving up the faux aura of ice queen for a more mellowed unaffected look. “No, but I’ll take a tea.” 

Stiles hides his grin as he spins off of the couch. There’s a new pack of tea sitting on the counter that’s been waiting for this day, a ‘building new friendships’ tactic. He thinks it’s gonna work out.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have committed a sin! When we’re filming an episode the easiest and laziest way to get exposition out is having all of the characters stand in a circle and talk. We call it rather fittingly a circle jerk. I hate it. We all hate it. We bash the writers for it constantly. And yet, I did it. Aaaaaaah. I could practically see the circular dolly track in my mind. AND THEN I had the audacity to do a fade to black. I’m horrible. This is not how reality works ppl. (but reality doesn’t have werewolves so we can call it even) 
> 
> Much love for the folks who like to leave comments and kudos <3
> 
> Did you want more from it? Would you have changed something? What would make it better for you? I'd love to know!
> 
> Find graphics for this story and more on my tumblr!  
> https://zanniscaramouche.tumblr.com/tagged/pines


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